


To Call My Own

by Dat_Patriot



Category: Pokemon, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Growing Up!Lock, Kid!Lock, Pokemon AU, Slash if you squint, i made up my own rules, just a lotta!lock, teen!lock, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dat_Patriot/pseuds/Dat_Patriot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has never been good at making friends. John is terrible at naming things. Their lives up to their meeting. Possible sequel/epilogue in the mix [maybe].</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mon Petit Ami

**Author's Note:**

> un-beta'd, un-edited [woops]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My little friend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> un-beta'd... also ignore the lack of french accents, i might care about that later //prolly not

=x=x=x=

 

Sherlock never listened to anything Mycroft said. Ever since he was little, he would go out of his way to ignore anything his brother told him. It wasn’t so much that he hated his brother—because he didn’t. He just hated how he acted.

Sometimes, he really should listen, though.

Leaves and twigs crunched underfoot as Sherlock walked underneath the canopy. He’d lost his way ages ago, but now things were looking hopeless. Feeling exhausted, the boy sat down at the base of a tree, brushing dust off of his trousers and hugging his pack close. Mycroft had told him the woods were difficult to navigate.

Not like that was any reason to deter Sherlock from trying to find some fun things to experiment with. His adventure had definitely gone south, though. He just wanted to go back home.

A breeze began to pick up and Sherlock clutched his pack tighter, trying to conserve what little heat his small body could produce. A shrill cry shattered through the air, and Sherlock only had time to startle and look up before a lump of fur fell from the branches above him and into his lap.

Tawny fur brushed against his face and Sherlock couldn’t hold back the mighty sneeze that forced its way through his lungs. Making the warm ball of fluff startle and skitter of into the brush.

“Wait!” Sherlock called after it, standing up to pursue the creature. He stumbled over his pack and almost fell directly on top of where the tawny bundle lay shivering.

Whatever it was, Sherlock had never seen anything like it before. Dark eyes looked up at him and its ears were pushed back as a hiss escaped its teeth.

Swallowing his nervousness, the felled boy slowly stuck out his hand towards it, briefly admiring the contrast of the white fur around its neck, “it’s okay,” he said, as softly as he could above the wind. His hand continued forward, palm up as he slid it along the dirt, “my name’s Sherlock. I won’t hurt you, you know.”

The creature sniffed the air, its fluffy tail still held erect with anxiety, but it didn’t flee.

Encouraged, Sherlock pushed its hand forward until the very tip of his finger brushed lightly against a cold, wet nose. The critter seemed to shock at this and quickly moved to nip at the hand. Sherlock flinched, expecting it to try to rip his finger off, but he only felt a light pressure of sharp fangs against his skin, the teeth simply holding him in place.

The two stared at each other, lost in thought and possibility of one another; Sherlock’s eyes traveled over its small, fluffy body, while the creature’s tail and ears flicked back and forth in consideration.

Slowly, Sherlock’s finger was released from its hold and he retracted it back, shifting slightly so he could sit up properly in the brush.

The creature tilted its head sideways before making a sound like a shrill bark. It trod over to where the boy was sitting stock-still and prodded at the divot his crossed legs made. Adjusting itself, it sat in the hollow there in Sherlock’s lap and began to rumble pleasantly, glad to be out of the cold.

Hesitantly, Sherlock placed his hand lightly on its back, encountering only fur until the solidity of the warm body beneath hit his fingers. Stroking it softly, Sherlock whispered, “thank you for being my friend” while he waited for his older brother to find him.

 

=x=x=x=

 

“It’s usually a few years yet before we allow a child the responsibility of their first pokémon,” a man in a white lab coat strode around the examination table where the creature Sherlock found out was called ‘Eevee’ sat, looking only slightly aggravated at the attention.

Sherlock turned wide eyes towards his brother and mother, fearing for an instant that they would try to take away his new friend. The professor continued, “you did not catch this eevee with a pokéball, did you?”

The boy shook his head. He didn’t even know what that was.

Mrs. Holmes interjected, “our family comes from a long line of breeders, Professor Pine, and we do not subject our own to be stored in such a manner.”

The professor nodded before running a hand over his hair, “well, I see no reason why we cannot register this eevee to Sherlock now, but we will have to have the serial number for the pokéball it’s stored in for our records.” He raised his hands to Mrs. Holmes before she could object, “it’s procedure ma’am, and mandatory.” He turned back to speak directly to Sherlock, “however, once you’ve “caught” your eevee, you don’t have to keep him in the pokéball, but you must keep your pokéball with you at all times. Understand?”

Sherlock nodded, understanding. He turned to his eevee and smiled largely, so excited to have a companion that he didn’t notice the large hand holding out a red and white orb to him.

The professor smiled as he handed the ball to the boy, showing him the locking mechanism, “go on, son. Catch your first pokémon.”

 

=x=x=x=

 

Sherlock was not very much liked in school. His brother told him that the other children were jealous that he got a Pokémon so early, but as always, Mycroft completely missed the point.

They weren’t jealous of him.

They hated him.

They hated how he could tell what they had for breakfast, or that their father had a haunter for a companion, or that one unlucky soul was likely to never get a pokémon. Sherlock couldn’t help that he wanted them to know what he did, but it seemed his eevee was the only one willing to listen.

Sherlock became recluse. Drawn away from the rest of them, he watched as his classmates grew from pulling pigtails to flirting dangerously. He watched as one by one they came to school holding a red-and-white orb and showed off their new companions at lunchtime. He watched them all stare and snicker at his small, fluffy companion and call him a sissy for having an eevee for a friend.

It was in secondary school when Sherlock started training.

While he himself took up boxing and the martial arts, he spent his time teaching his eevee to fight as well. The two quickly became a strong duo, and though they were still picked on through the years, Sherlock could at least defend the only friend he’d ever known.

 

“What should I do, _petit_?” Sherlock moaned, a book covering his face. His eevee sat on the top ledge of the couch, curled up in a ball that balanced there by some miracle. Peeking over the book, Sherlock extended a finger towards it, only to have sharp little fangs pinch happily down on the appendage.

Yanking his finger back Sherlock glared at the creature, only to get an amused flick of a tail in response. He flopped back down onto the couch and moaned again, “bored!”

A knock on the door startled him from his musings, and he watched with amusement as his companion’s ears shot up in alert only to pull back in distaste, “what do you want, Mycroft?”

The door opened to reveal his brother, wearing yet another business suit and holding a briefcase in one hand. He was far too young to carry himself like a government official, but the look did suit him to a tee.

That didn’t make him any less of a meddling arse.

His brother strode into the room, a bright red bird perched on his shoulder. The thing tittered at his eevee who made a soft clicking noise in kind. Apparently whatever feud lay between the brothers had no affect on his companion or Mycroft’s talonflame.

“Brother, what have I said about keeping experiments in your room,” his brother tutted.

Sherlock huffed up, “it hardly matters what you’ve said, seeing as it’s my room and they’re my experiments.” He turned over on the sofa, scrunching his body like a child half his age, though for a young teenager it was hardly an effective deterrent. “If you’ve nothing else to say you can lea— _oof!_ ”

Eevee had leapt down from the sofa and straight onto Sherlock’s side, clearly done with his tantrum. It nipped at his ear as he squirmed away.

A loud sigh sounded and a thump hit somewhere in the direction of the small table near Sherlock’s side, “I thought you could do with some reading.” Footfalls sounded quietly on the carpeted floors and with one last titter from his bird, Mycroft disappeared behind the door.

Peeking over his shoulder, Sherlock flipped himself over to study the book on the table, his eevee luckily being smart enough to leap off before he could go flying.

Sherlock picked up the book, “The Eevee and the Evolutionary Process… hm.” The cover had a picture of a single eevee that looked similar to his own. He looked from the image to the confused creature and scratched him lightly behind the ears, “no worries, _petit_ , you’re far more interesting than this one.”

The eevee seemed to perk up at that and proceeded to take that as an invitation to leap onto the book and bounce on the cover.

 

By the time Sherlock got around to reading the thing—studiously ignoring that it had come from Mycroft—it was late into the night and his eyes had begun to strain reading the print. He lay on his stomach across his bed, feet kicking into the air absently as he flipped pages, studied diagrams, and scribbled notes in the margins.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw his eevee—or Petit, as he had taken to calling him—lying atop his pillow. It was an agreement they had come to early on, seeing as Sherlock’s impending insomnia left him with very little time asleep. A small smile passed over his face at the sight of the creature—his first and only friend.

Sherlock turned the page in his book only to pause at the title of the chapter—Evolution Stones. “Interesting,” he whispered, and gorged himself on the words on the page, ignoring the slight burn of his eyes.

 

=x=x=x=

 

He had become rather taken with being called Petit. It wasn’t an official name or anything, more of an accidental utterance turned pet-name. He wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but his Sherlock always said it with such softness… Maybe it was the language? He wasn’t sure—the human tongue still puzzled him occasionally, though some words had adapted special meanings.

For example, there was food, come, Mycroft, experiment, bored… and his favorite, friend.

That was what his Sherlock had called him first.

 

An enormous bound woke Petit from his sleep on Sherlock’s pillow. Skittering and tail held erect he braced himself for attack, ready to protect himself and his Sherlock if necessary!

He was only half disappointed when it was his Sherlock who had woke him up.

Crazy human.

“Petit, you would not believe this!” Sherlock rambled, furiously flipping through the pages of his book. He stopped on one page and scooted it over in front of his little companion. “Look! There’s a way to evolve your kind into all sorts of branch species!” He pointed to images of different stones, “all we need is one of these stones, and poof! You’re entirely new!” Sherlock’s smile grew as he spoke, unaware of the discomfort edging into his friend’s demeanor. “Think of what could happen, Petit, what if there were two stones at once? Would one override the other? Would you be able to choose? There’s just so much--!”

A sharp nip to the forearm stopped the teen mid-rant. He looked down to where his eevee stood, sides heaving and still latched onto his arm. His large ears were twitching in time with its tail and those glassy dark eyes betrayed his anxiety.

Feeling uncharacteristically worried, Sherlock stroked his free hand down the eevee’s back until he loosened his grip. “What’s wrong, Petit? Do you not wish to further scientific inquiry?”

The small pokémon applied more pressure with its teeth and lashed its fluffed tail. No, then.

Still stroking his fur, Sherlock asked again, “do you not wish to evolve?”

The pressure returned again.

Sighing deeply, the teen reached around to pick up the eevee, knowing his actions were accepted when his small friend released his arm. He stared the creature straight down, icy grey meeting deep brown, “Petit, you are my friend, and I know that you’re the only one I’ve ever had, but I promise you that I shall make no attempt to evolve you until you are ready.”

Dark eyes scanned his face as if searching for a sign of falsehood in his words, but finding none the eevee trilled happily, reaching forward to place a single lick onto the boy’s nose. With a small chuckle, Sherlock released his friend and stood up from the firm mattress, “come along, Petit, we’ve experiments to finish.”

And the boy knew all was well by the excited bark his friend let out before running over to the spot on the table where he could watch his Sherlock work.

=x=x=x=

 

Sherlock was nineteen when he left his parents’ house, fed up with their authoritarian ways. He took up residence in the first flat he found that he could afford just to get away from them and his brother. It was unsurprising that Sherlock felt a need to get his own space, after having been hounded time and again by his brother to “make something of himself,” or his mother to “settle down with someone,” and especially his father who told him to “just evolve the damn thing already.”

He’d had enough. It was high time he spared himself and his companion from their mental tortures.

The flat he’d chosen was small, dingy, and absolutely wretched where neighborhood was concerned. But it was his. It was theirs, and they were free. Sherlock still attended classes at university paid by his parents, but this flat—this broken, smelly, stained, and battered thing was all his.

Sherlock turned to his companion, who sat on the one small table in the room, off the smoke-stained floors, “well, Petit, we’re finally out of there. It’s time we lived our own lives.” And though the air smelt faintly of sick, Petit let out a happy chirp to know that he and his Sherlock were going to together, and they were going to be great.

 

=x=x=x=

 

Petit didn’t like Victor. Not at all. Normally, he was completely fine with strangers, but this one gave his Sherlock a sharp tool and white powder that made him all frantic and… not Sherlock.

Sherlock seemed to like him, though, and that was the problem.

Every time that man came over, he brought with him a beedrill that would constantly stare at him through the entire visit, watching him with glassy eyes. It wasn’t the first time Petit has met a beedrill, but it was the first time he’d felt so openly threatened.

The first time the two had arrived at their new flat, Victor had shook his Sherlock’s hand, and was welcomed inside. Taking this as a sign of a friend, Petit had happily bounded over to the man’s companion to greet him. What he did not expect was the whirring of its drills and a low, threatening hiss.

He never attempted contact again.

His Sherlock was now slumped in a chair and Victor had left. Petit jumped down from his favored spot on the shelf and pawed at his leg for attention. His Sherlock only snorted and muttered something about tomato juice.

He didn’t like what this Sherlock was, Petit thought as he crawled to the bedroom to curl up on the lone pillow. He wanted _his_ Sherlock back.

 

=x=x=x=

 

“Sherlock, you need to leave this flat.”

“I hardly see why.” A deep baritone answered from the man dangling upside-down from a ratty couch in the middle of a crowded living space. A large hand motioned to the room, “as you can see, I have my experiments here, I have Petit here, and I have my cigarettes,” he pulled a box from his dressing gown, “right here. I take consults from the police and other morons… There’s no reason for me to leave.”

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose, once again blaming Sherlock for his early graying hair, “Sherlock, you cannot go on living with a single pokémon as your only companion. You need human interaction.”

“Says who?” Sherlock challenged. He looked up to his eevee thinking to get reinforcement but when the critter turned its head, eyes downcast, something shot through the detective. “Petit?”

The eevee simply shrunk back further into the shelf it had taken as a nesting space.

“Mycroft, see yourself out.”

“Sherlock, I really think--”

“ _Now._ ”

A moment of silence passed over where the only sound was the tense ticking of a clock in the kitchen.

“Fine. But we will return to this discussion, Sherlock,” and with that, Mycroft turned on his heel and strode out the door, taking extra care to touch absolutely nothing in the filth of a place Sherlock had rented.

 

Sherlock lay on the floor, legs stretched out behind him and his chin resting on his folded hands. Petit had not moved since Mycroft’s visit, and Sherlock had made no move to touch the softly breathing bundle.

“What’s wrong, Petit?” Sherlock had asked, hours ago when it was still light outside. Only an agitated twitch of the ears answered him.

His mind was whirring. What could cause his companion to shrink away from him? Frustrated and feeling oddly hollow, Sherlock buried his face in his folded arms and thought.

It wasn’t until the first light of dawn that it hit him.

Sherlock sat up suddenly, spooking his eevee out of sleep and almost earning himself a scratch across the face for his trouble. He leaned into the shelf where his companion was nested, “it’s the drugs, isn’t it?”

Petit seemed confused at his words. Curse the language barrier! Pokémon were able to adapt and respond to the human tongue with relative ease, yet some things took a little more explanation.

Not having any cocaine on hand, Sherlock stood and strode over to the kitchen, rooting through the cupboards and muttering, “how could I not see this before? I knew something was wrong but I ignored it. Stupid!”

The detective found what he was looking for and quickly strode back into the sitting room, holding up a handful of flour to his companion.

The effect was immediate—the eevee’s ears flattened to its skull and it let out such a ferocious hiss that spittle formed around its mouth. Petit displayed signs of legitimate hatred towards the white powder, and Sherlock only felt like more of an idiot.

Quickly dumping the flour in the bin, Sherlock murmured, “I’m so sorry, Petit. I should have seen, it’s my job to see and I… I failed you.” He ran a large hand down his companion’s fur, noting the faint shivering that wracked its agitated body. “I will fix this, my friend. I promise you.”

 

=x=x=x=

 

Sherlock started taking up cases with the police to keep his mind busy. Having dropped out of school months ago, Sherlock’s parents had abandoned him financially, save for the trust fund his grandmother had left him in her will.

He stopped using completely and threw out any trace of narcotics left in his dingy flat.

His falling out with Victor had been spectacular, especially when his Petit bit him so hard on the ankle, he had to hobble down the stairs with an almighty limp. Sherlock was just lucky that Victor had left his beedrill in his pokéball, lest he worry for Petit’s safety.

 

Striding into a crime scene with an eevee perched on your shoulder in a charcoal belstaff was the easiest way to get strange looks.

It didn’t help that the officers gave him strange looks with or without his companion.

“Holmes, what are you doing here?”

“Solving your case, what else,” Sherlock intoned, ignoring the suspicious looks in his direction. “Show me the scene, and stop huffing at my companion.”

DI Lestrade just sighed loudly before motioning for Sherlock to follow him, “you know I could get in serious trouble for this…”  He whistled lightly and his azumarill appeared at his feet, gesturing broadly and making his small “Detective’s Assistant” badge flop around its neck.

“What’s Holmes doing here!”

 _Ah, the squawk of an idiot,_ Sherlock thought, amused that Petit had taken the same attitude towards the insect of a man.

“Working, obviously, which is more than you can say.”

“You--!”

“Anderson, shut it. I’m taking Sherlock upstairs.”

“Make sure that fluff ball of his doesn’t ruin anything!”

An angry hiss from his eevee told him how little the comment was appreciated.

Oh, but getting into the crime scene always helped to put his annoyance on hold, if only for a little while. Petit jumped down from his perch and sniffed around the room, ignoring the body that lay sprawled face up on an ornate, foreign rug. Sherlock’s attention focused onto the figure, poking, prodding and even sniffing where necessary.

“Petit, come,” Sherlock said, motioning to the eevee who had taken special interest in the potted plant in the corner.

After a quick sniff from his companion to confirm it, Sherlock stood up abruptly and began shouting commands and insults (mostly towards Anderson and his incompetence) to the surrounding officers. Sherlock stooped quickly so the Petit could latch onto the shoulder-pad of his coat, and strode out of the scene, sending rapid fire texts and anticipating a puzzle.

 

It had taken hours to solve the case, which was impressive by Yard standards, but frustratingly slow to Sherlock’s. “It would have been done in minutes if Anderson hadn’t moved everything. Idiot.”

Petit chirped an agreement and sat on the booth next to him, eating the meatballs from his spaghetti and making an overall mess of his face. Sherlock munched at his noodles slowly as he became more lost in his thoughts. As his eevee finished up the last meatball he turned to it with a napkin in hand and said, “how do you feel about getting a flatmate?”

 

=x=x=x=


	2. Jack-in-the-Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though delayed, there is always a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> un-beta'd... it's like, 2am you think i'm gonna notice if i used the correct 'their' in a sentence??

=x=x=x=

 

John Watson was one of those unfortunate children who was not able to afford the proper care for a pokémon. It was alright for him at first, because no one else in his family had a pokémon. He didn’t see why it was such a big deal.

His friends at school felt completely the opposite.

“Look! See this here is a charizard!” One little boy who was missing a tooth said, holding up a card which seemed to have basic information on a pokémon. He held up another, “this one here’s a gyarados! My big brother’s got one of them!”

The other children ate up his words and passed the cards around to each other, all of them imagining what it would be like to have even one of them to call their own.

John thought it was a nice bit of fantasy, but he’s seen the look on his mother’s face when Harry asked to go to the local Professor’s laboratory. She had smiled that soft, sad, regretful smile like she did every Christmas and said, “now’s not the time, love.”

Harry had kicked and screamed and shouted with frustration, and rightly so, in John’s 8-year-old opinion. She had been so looking forward to choosing a pokémon, or being given a pokéball by the Professor to catch her very own. She’d done research for months, figuring out which would be her favorite companion and where she could meet one.

It was her dream to catch a buizel.

Weeks passed before the tension finally drained out of her, and it took their parents some time to figure out why—she took up her uncle’s habit of turning to the bottle for comfort.

As if their situation needed an alcoholic.

John had thought she was selfish in that way, but he did not hate her.

She did frustrate the boy endlessly, though.

 

=x=x=x=

 

John slammed the heavy cover of his book with a final thud. That was it. He’d done all he could, and now he had to take his last exam ever and he would have his degree. John stared up at the white crusting ceiling of his dormitory and pondered. It looked like someone—or some pokémon—had slightly charred a section of the ceiling.

A deep sigh escaped him and he rubbed the back of his neck. He’d gone his whole life without the presence of a pokémon around him. He’s watched his friends play and train their own until they could breathe fire or leap incredible heights or in one case, hypnotize another lad so badly he started to believe he was a professional stripper.

That was one memory John could always chuckle at.

It was only in his moments by himself in silence when he felt the sting of loneliness. John shook himself quickly, “best not to dwell in those thoughts, Watson. You’ve got an exam to brace yourself for!”

Standing up from his chair, John packed away the last of his books before heading down to the dining hall for lunch, an application to the Queen’s Army lying face up on his desk.

 

=x=x=x=

 

He’d done it!

“Mum! Mum, look!” John shouted, suddenly feeling seven all over again with his first paper maché project. His socked feet slid on the wooden floors as he skidded into the kitchen of his parents’ home.

The short woman turned where she was reaching for a dish on a high shelf and shook her head frantically to mock her son, “what what what, my John! What’s so exciting you can’t hold yourself still?”

John grinned like a schoolboy and held up an open letter for his mother to read.

Sliding on her glasses she shot him a sly look before turning her eyes to the crisp page. As her eyes scanned the words, she held a hand to her mouth and John saw her eyes begin to mist behind her spectacles. She looked from the letter up to her son’s face and back down before shaking her head and choking back a sob.

“John, my John,” she whispered brokenly before reaching forward to grip her boy in a tight hug which he returned, whispering the words she never wanted to hear with such happiness:

“I’ve been accepted, mum. I’m going into the army.”

 

=x=x=x=

 

There were still two and half months left until he shoved off to basic training. John sat around a table with his mother, father, and two of his friends from school who actually stayed in regular contact. It was his birthday, likely the last they’d be spending together as a family—an unspoken promise of John moving on hung in the air.

Oh, they’d likely chat on the phone and maybe visit on a holiday, but they all knew that John had no intention of staying at home any longer. That was the whole reason he had joined the army, after all.

Mrs. Watson came out from the kitchen with a small cake, decorated to look like army camouflage which made John laugh so hard he accidentally blew out two of the candles.

“Hey now!” His mum huffed as she relit them. “It’s bad luck if you don’t blow them all out at once.” Her tone was indignant but her eyes were soft.

“I thought it was just that your wish didn’t come true,” John smiled, enjoying poking fun at his mum.

His father chimed in with his gruff voice from the pipe, “well I for one would say a wish not coming true was rotten luck!”

John laughed lightheartedly. His friends Mike and Tom smacked him on the back, their companions—a squirtle and a raichu--jumping around excitedly at their feet, “come on, mate! Make a wish already!”

The birthday boy took a moment to mull it over and a thought shot from nowhere but stuck to the forefront of his mind as he blew out every last one of his candles—I don’t want to be lonely.

His parents clapped for him while his mother moved to sort the cake. Mike clapped him on the back, “congrats, mate, I hope it was a good one!” He chuckled when his squirtle jumped onto his lap to take a swipe at his leftover sausage from John’s birthday dinner.

Tom ruffled his hair from behind, “yeah, you’ll have to write us when you shove off, ya hear?” He trapped John in a head lock, “you hear me, John Watson!”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” John choked, smacking at his friend’s face. Tom’s own companion had managed to climb up his leg and rested happily on the inside of his sweater, its head poking out of the neckline. John reached over and scratched at the brown mouse’s head, earning a purr and a small charge to surge through its colored cheeks.

A small pang of regret passed through him, and it was harder than he would’ve thought not to dwell on it.

“John, are you ready to open your gifts?” His father asked him, his watery blue eyes alight with anticipation and a shallow sadness.

Forcing a smile, John nodded, “Yeah, alright.” He didn’t expect much. Socks, maybe. Socks would be lovely, actually. Three pairs would be a treat, he mused, knowing that if his mother had any way, she would knit him a whole new wardrobe of jumpers, just because she could.

His mother walked over to the table and deposited a medium sized box in front of her son, “Happy birthday, love.”

Curious, John lifted the box—it wasn’t terribly heavy, but it did have considerable weight to it. He debated shaking it for an instant before deciding against it and he plucked the card from the ribbon that held down the lid.

It read: _To our dearest John—you’ve come so far and you’ll go even further, but now you won’t have to go alone. Much love always, Mum and Dad._

As John finished reading, the box gave a mighty shake and the card slipped from John’s hands. Suddenly very excited, John whipped off the ribbon and took off the lid.

Inside, about the size of a large watermelon was an egg, dark brown and speckled with flecks of gold. John’s breath caught as he reached into the box, unaware of the excited noises of his friends or the happy sniffling of his mother. Pulling the egg out, John held it to his chest and let out a large breath when he felt a heat radiate from the inside.

He looked up to his mother, his eyes starting to water for some reason he couldn’t explain. She smiled at him again, “your father and I were given the chance of a lifetime a little while ago. Professor Aspen had recently been working with breeding pokémon and somehow had an extra egg than what he needed.” She wiped a tear from her face from behind her glasses, “I’d just happen to walk in to ask about adoption for you when he offered me this egg. I told him you were leaving for the army and he said you couldn’t just leave without a companion.” She chuckled, “charming man, that one.”

John still clutched at his egg, cradling the warm and rocking thing in his lap as she spoke. He couldn’t believe it.

His father leaned forward in his chair to catch John’s attention, “son, I cannot say how proud I am of you for choosing your own path. I hope that with this critter in here,” he tapped the shell of the egg lightly, “we’ll be able to say that we can still look after you.” He pulled a small orb from his pocket and placed it in his son’s hands. John felt almost numb with possibility and gratitude.

That night he sat up on his small bed in his small room in his parents’ house and stared at the egg, watching it shift occasionally and finding comfort in the heat it gave off. He fell asleep clutching it to his chest and smiling like a fool.

 

=x=x=x=

 

John carried that egg with him for weeks, feeling a strange parental instinct to keep it in sight at all times. He brought it with him to the store for shopping, he carried it in his backpack when he visited the gym, and it even sat in a cozy nest of his jacket in a chair when he worked at the local café down the street.

Just the sight of it brought a warm glow to his chest. He could hardly wait for it to hatch!

His mother wasn’t sure what type of pokémon it would be, and a search online told him nothing other than it was likely to be fairly small. Good, John thought, it’d be easier to have a smaller companion, especially given tight army quarters.

John had sat up through the night doing research on pokémon companions in the army. It seemed that they were, for the most part, allowed, as long as they attended the same basic training. John thought it was weird to have non-human creatures trailing behind humans when they crawled through mud and survived in wilderness, but it made sense. After all, if they planned on being with them during combat, they should be as familiar as the soldiers with their training.

The only thing that irked him was that medical teams were not permitted to have their companions with them in the aid tents—they were either to be kept outside, or secure in their pokéball. John wasn’t too keen on the ideas of the pokéball. He knew it was the easiest and most effective way to heal a pokémon, especially for exhaustion, but long-term storage just didn’t sit well with him—his pokémon was a companion, not a novelty item.

Sitting on his bed, John leafed through some magazine he’d found abandoned at work when he heard a clicking noise coming from his egg.

His head whipped around to stare at the brown orb sitting on his pillow. The thing was rocking back and forth vigorously and John had to make a rather impressive lung to keep it from rolling off the bed.

It was hatching.

John licked his lips, “come on out, little fella,” he encouraged it, holding the now violently shaking egg on the bed in front of him. “My name’s John, and I don’t know who you are, but please come out so I can meet you.”

The egg stopped moving entirely and John had a split second and heart-shattering notion that he’d scared his pokémon back into the egg. Before John had any time to dwell on it, the egg erupted from the sides, scattering bits of charred shell across the duvet and onto the floor. In the middle of the smoking mess, a bundle of fiery orange fur turned in a circle, stretching its limbs for the first time.

John stared at it for a moment before unconsciously plucking a piece of shell from its white fluffy mane. The creature barked at him cheerfully and a small flare erupted from its jaws.

A growlithe.

He’d hatched a growlithe.

He couldn’t keep the smile off his face, “hi there. My name’s John.”

Holding out his hand, he waited for the creature to sniff and lick at his fingers before burying them in the white fluff of its small mane, his hands stroking down tiger-striped flanks. The growlithe moved into each pet and caress, making happy clicking noises and sniffling with delight.

Wet streaks fell down John’s face, but they went unnoticed as he and his new companion played together for the first time on his too-small bed.

 

=x=x=x=

 

At 0700 John Watson sat on a bench at the station and waited for his train, his growlithe sitting on top of his small duffel bag next to him. He scratched it gently behind the ears as he waited, his eyes on some trashy novel he’d taken from his mother’s collection. A memento of home, really.

“Oi, mate,” a voice sounded above him. John looked up to see a large looking man a few years younger than himself, striding alongside a rather intimidating looking nidoking. A toothpick in his mouth moved from side to side as he spoke, “You gettin’ on the train to basic?”

John nodded, “yeah, you heading there as well?”

The man—boy, really—nodded, the toothpick bobbing slightly, “yep. Just need to wait for the damn thing to get here.” He flashed a cheeky grin before sticking out his hand, “I’m Marty, by the way.”

“John.”

Marty pointed a thumb to his companion, “this here’s Georgey, and he’s real sweet once he gets ta know ya.” He placed a hand on its horn and the nidoking closed its eyes with contentment. “I’ve had him since I was ‘bout eleven years old.” Marty looked over to the still-small growlithe laying on his pack, “yours hasn’t evolved yet, has it?”

John looked to his growlithe and quickly noticed the apprehension in its features, “no, I actually hatched him just recently.” He scratched the back of his head, “he doesn’t have a proper name yet.”

“Tch, I can see that, he looks right tiny!” Marty laughed good-naturedly. He moved in to pet the bright fur only to have the growlithe release a low and threatening rumble when he got too close. Undeterred, Marty continued forward slowly while John watched, wary. The growling got progressively louder until the growlithe made a high pitched yipping sound and snapped its jaws at the offending hand, not aiming to bite, only make a point.

“Oi!” Marty yelped, his nidoking closing in behind him to defend with a low cry. John quickly moved to apologize but instead of yelling obscenities, Marty just laughed, “you’re going to have to get him more used to strangers, mate! Not exactly a private place, the army.”

John chuckled nervously at that, stroking his companion’s flank to calm him, “yeah, will do.”

A loud whistling noise erupted a distance away and a voice sounded overhead, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the 7:30 train to--”

“That’d be us then!” Marty shouted over the noise. John stood up to shake his hand, noting how much taller the lad was than him and that his companion was about John’s own size. “See you there, mate.”

“You as well.” He waved to Marty’s retreating back as he went to stand towards the far side of the platform.

John sat back down on the bench and his growlithe curled up in his lap, nipping at his hand to demand a petting. John chuckled before giving in, “you know, the army’s going to be rough, right? Tons of people, weird smells, mud everywhere no doubt. People yelling… It won’t be like home.”

The growlithe looked up to his face then and as if understanding the implications of John’s words, barked confidently before nuzzling his head back under John’s hand and huffing out a small flame when he didn’t immediately start petting him.

 

As it turned out, when John got off the last bus, every single other person there had some form of pokémon with them. Some were huge, like the towering onix a petite brunette woman had by her side, and some were considerably smaller and more delicate, such as the pastel colored vivillon accompanying an older gentlemen.

What seemed to be unanimous though, was that all of them had evolved at least once. John looked down at the growlithe at his feet; he was sitting tall with his fluffy tail held close, his body pressed lightly against John’s leg as he waited for instruction. John resisted the urge to scratch him behind the ears as a man in a flat brim hat and a scowl on his face strode up to the line and began his verbal assault.

Their life in the army had begun.

 

=x=x=x=

 

Sometimes he really wished he had a name. His John sometimes addressed him as something other than “growlithe,” but none of them were his name.

He trotted a few paces behind his John as they neared the dining hall. Today had been especially difficult; the physical training being an outdoor obstacle course that they were supposed to run through three times. They were both bleeding, muddy, and exhausted by the end of the second turn, and the third just kicked them down harder.

By then he was looking forward to some food with his John.

The chow hall was lively and buzzing, everyone there having their companion with them to eat. His John grabbed a tray and a large dish from the stack and moved into the line. When they got to the front he heard his John order, “chicken, potatoes, and green beans, thanks. And the beef bits as well.”

The growlithe yipped excitedly and got a smile from his John; he loved the beef bits. They tasted like the scraps of jerky he would sometimes get for good behavior (and from his John in the middle of the night.)

He and his John were greeted at the table as they sat down, his John placing the bowl of beef bits next to his tray so he could be part of the conversation. Though as usual, he spent the whole time defending his food from the meinshao who liked to steal his scraps.

 

Training was rough, but he could already tell he was stronger. The growlithe had grown almost twice his size since joining with his John, and even though he was barely two years old, he was the most reliable of the medical team’s companions. His John had managed to get around the rule of “no pokémon in the medical tent” when one of his patients—who had lost their companion in a raid—started having day terrors.

The growlithe remembered him very well.

Without prompting, he had run into the tent and sat on top of the man’s chest, hoping his natural heat and breathing would calm him. It had worked like a charm until his John’s officer had walked in and started demanding answers about his presence.

His John defended him so well, that he not only became an official medical companion, but the other doctors were allowed theirs as well, if they were unobtrusive.

His John was so proud of him, and he’d ruffled his fur and nuzzled his face with affection.

The army wasn’t so bad, he thought.

 

=x=x=x=

 

“I’ve been thinking of names for you, you know.”

The growlithe, who had been snoozing happily on John’s chest, perked up a bit. The tent was dark and the sounds of snoring filled the place with organic white noise. It was comforting, in a way, to be so close to people in such a foreign environment. They were like a pack.

They’d been a pack for years now.

John ran a hand down his growlithe’s back, “nothing I could think of sounded any good, though.” He chuckled, “Sam thought I should call you Hamish.”

That got him a little nip on the arm and John struggled to keep his laughter quiet.

He continued petting his friend, glad his sergeants let him sleep out of the pokéball because he was so young.  John hummed thoughtfully as his growlithe’s soft breathing lulled him back into sleep, “I’ll think of one… I promise, my friend.”

 

=x=x=x=

 

The day John’s growlithe finally received his name was the day when hell broke loose.

They’d been deployed to Afghanistan, and it was hot and sandy and dry where they were. Sands and buttes everywhere, but also far more trees and grass than they’d realized.

It was a strange sensation, to finally be there.

The growlithe’s sharp front claws dug into the sand as an explosion rang out overhead, luckily shielded by a large crested boulder embedded in the sand. He was carrying a vest on his back marked with a red cross, and holding a bag of gauze open in his teeth. John was knelt over a man and desperately wrapping a wrap around his lower leg, hoping to staunch the bleeding where not one, but two bullets had pierced at almost the same time.

It was lucky for him that his companion was a psychic type and could easily hypnotize him while John worked to stop the bleeding.

Nothing was working.

“Shit… Shit, shit shit!” He cursed, grabbing another roll of gauze from the bag. He moved up towards the man’s face, and saw Richards stitched onto his jacket, “Richards… Richards, look at me, mate.” The man’s head turned and his eyes slowly focused. His face was pale, “Richards, I’m doing what I can but I’m not--”

_Well-equipped. Making progress. Helping--!_

John choked a little on his words but kept a strong face, “listen to me, mate. We’re going to get you out of here, alright? Then someone will be able to help you with more equipment.” He scrubbed a hand down his face before turning to where the two pokémon sat; his growlithe had dropped the bag and was licking behind the ears of the meowstic beside him. “You’re going to have to be strong for me, mate, you’re going to have to help him get back to base.”

Screams and shots fired around them from behind their small cover. John adjusted the vest on his growlithe and looked him in the eye, “now you listen to me, Jack, we’re going to get out of this. We’re going to be okay.”

Caught between great despair and elation at the name, Jack gave one whimpering bark before licking at his John’s face.

“Right then, come on,” John moved over to where the man was lying and sat him upright, sliding his pack back on as extra padding. He quickly took out another small vest and wrapped it around Richards’ companion as well. It would make mobility more difficult but it was an added precaution.

Just as John stood to walk around Richards, he heard a high pitched yelp from behind him. He turned quickly to see that a man covered head to toe in black and red cloth was shouting and lining up his gun to fire at his companion who was already favoring a leg. With little conscious thought, John dove quickly over Jack’s body, curling around him as his world exploded.

All he saw was red, and all he felt was heat.

Bright colors swirled before his eyes and he was pretty sure his arm had been ripped out of its socket. He was also sure that he was screaming, his throat hurt like hell but nothing was clear. He reached up with his right hand to steady himself and was met with a radiating warmth of soft fur before falling into the black.

 

=x=x=x=

 

It was so dark when John opened his eyes, that he wasn’t sure he was awake at all. A brief moment of panicked disorientation washed over him and he moved to sit up. A blinding light of pain rocketed through his body from his shoulder and he choked out a cry as he fell back onto firm pillows.

Until his pillows grunted beneath him.

Taking large gulps of air, John managed to sit through the pain until it was just a dull throbbing along his left shoulder. With his right hand, he reached behind himself and felt soft fur radiating familiar heat. Leaning back some more, John rubbed at what he could reach, “Jack… tell me you’re okay at least.”

A muted woofing sound confirmed it, but it sounded much deeper than what he was used to. Reaching out, John felt for the small lamp on the side of every infirmary cot. Clicking it on, he noticed that somehow, his growlithe had grown over twice its size since he’d last seen it. Jack’s white mane that was more of a tuft of fur now resembled that of a lion’s, and his front and hind paws had thick tufts of white as well.

“Jack…” John muttered, his vision fading again. “You’ve grown.” A rough tongue lapped at his face as he fell into a dreamless sleep, far more content knowing that his companion was unharmed and by his side.

 

They kept asking him questions while he was in the hospital he’d been transferred to. Debriefing and all, but most of them weren’t even about him.  

“You left for the lines with a growlithe, did you not?” A man with overly large glasses and a blanched-white coat asked him. He was completely bald on the top of his head and for some reason, John found it extremely irritating.

“Yes, and when I woke up in the cot, I had an arcanine,” John answered, knowing full well what his pup had grown into. The question was how. Growlithe’s were only known to evolve when exposed to a fire stone.

“Are you sure this is the same pokémon?” The man asked, his tone growing more condescending.

John deadpanned at him, “I don’t know, let me ask him.” He turned to his companion and asked in an incredulous tone, “Jack! Is that you?”

The arcanine barked out a laugh and blew out a small flame between its teeth in amusement. John couldn’t hide his smirk as the bald man took a step back.

 

They were sent home on the next plane--battered, tired, and for John, with no livelihood to speak of.

All he had on him was a starburst scar and an aluminum crutch.

He was extremely lucky to still have his Jack with him every step of the way.

 

=x=x=x=


	3. Man's Best Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wrapping this one up... gearing up towards the shasta pasta. i am really tired ignore me.

=x=x=x=

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” A low voice halted his movements into the lab. Mike stood by one of the tables with his wartortle dancing around his legs.

Across the lab a tall, lithe man with curly dark hair sat at a microscope, a small eevee by his side holding a pen light between its teeth.

The two were probably the oddest pair John had ever seen, and yet for all his barbed words, the man treated his eevee with great tenderness, and the small creature seemed to hang on his every word—as well as his shoulder.

The stranger’s gaze shifted from John down to his companion, who tilted his head slightly under the scrutiny and let out a small whine. The stranger’s eevee chirped in response and his arcanine’s tail gave a slow wag.

John was about to ask the stranger how he knew about the war, when he was cut off with the wave of a hand, “never mind that. How do you feel about the violin?”

 

=x=x=x=

 

It was strange having someone else in the flat.  Sherlock wasn’t used to sharing much space and at first it felt oddly cramped having so many. The size of John’s companion was another factor, though he somehow managed to curl himself up between John’s chair and the fire quite nicely.

Petit had taken to them instantly, which wasn’t a surprise.

What was a surprise was how John’s companion didn’t seem to like Sherlock very much.

“Your arcanine doesn’t like me,” Sherlock told him one day, sitting in his chair and staring at the subject of his foul mood.

“Well maybe if you stopped calling him ‘your arcanine’ instead of his name, he’d warm up to you,” John countered, giving said companion a playful ruffle of an ear before going back to typing in his armchair.

Sherlock continued to stare, “I’m unused to pokémon having names other than what they were given.”

John snorted, “says the man who calls his companion ‘Petit’ all the time.” The name sounded a little strange with John’s lack of accent.

“That’s a term of endearment!” Sherlock argued.

Surprisingly, John laughed, “glad to know someone has your affection, then.”

Sherlock was quiet the rest of the night, watching as John’s companion fell asleep at John’s feet, with a round tawny shape of his eevee curled up on its flank.

 

=x=x=x=

 

John was sure that he wasn’t supposed to see it, but he was glad he did.

He’d left Jack home while he went to the surgery, knowing that their certain clinic held up it’s “no pokémon in the ward” rules. A definite shame, seeing how excellent of an assistant his companion was. He trudged up the stairs, carrying a bag full of milk and more pokémon food when he saw them.

Jack was seated in front of Sherlock’s chair, staring up at him with a slow-wagging tail. Sherlock sat with his fingers steepled under his chin but his eyes scanning over the pokémon as if seeing him for the first time. John watched for a while, knowing it was likely that they both knew he was standing in the doorway, but he didn’t want to disturb the moment.

Finally, slowly, Sherlock extended one of his hands towards the arcanine’s face for inspection. Jack sniffed at it thoroughly with a wet nose before giving it a lick and nuzzling into it. A small smile crept onto the detective’s face as he slowly stroked the white fur around its muzzle. He lifted the other hand to scratch behind one of his ears like he’d seen John do a thousand times.

John was half tempted to creep back down the stairs and come back in ten minutes, when a small pinch to his leg alerted him that he was not alone. Carefully, John moved to sit on the stairs as quietly as possible and held out his hand the eevee who was watching him. Instantly, the little critter jumped onto his lap and began nuzzling his face with soft clicking sounds of happiness. One of John’s hands covered most of its back as he stroked down its fur and scratched its flank. John was chuckling at the burst of fluffy affection when the door behind him opened up wider.

Tilting his head back, John saw Sherlock looking down at him with a content smile he’d only rarely seen. Jack walked over from behind him to sit down behind his John, actively propping him up while allowing enough access to get scritched under the chin. The detective raised an eyebrow at the little scene.

John smiled broadly, “care to join us, then?”

Sherlock could only smile back as he took a seat next to John on the stairs with their companions.

 

All of them had ended up migrating to the sitting room, piled in front of the fire in a heap of fluff and limbs and contentment. John had fallen asleep some time ago against Sherlock’s side, muttering something about ham sandwiches in his sleep. Sherlock ran his hands across differing furs by his side and reclined against the foot of John’s armchair. He watched flames lick at artificial logs for a moment longer before he felt his eyelids grow heavy in a way that pleasantly countered the light feeling in his heart.

 

=x END x=

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you ignored my previous notes: a) it's un-beta'd, so there are mistakes in there... like, a lot of 'em. b) i'm not a brit, don't comment on my grammar or word choice pls. c) i can't even feel my left foot, i think it fell asleep
> 
> i'mma fix it tomorrow when i can actually grammar g'night


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